“I don't think so,” said I. “The door is coming down. But, anyhow, I can't leave our friend here. Lie still!” I growled, giving the captive a gentle prod in the neck with the point of his knife to emphasize my desire to have peace and quiet between us.
I heard him swear under his breath. The words were foreign, but there was no mistaking the sentiment behind them.
“You aren't killing him are you?” inquired Luella anxiously.
“I think it might be a service to the country,” I confessed, “but I'll save him for the hangman.”
“You needn't speak so regretfully,” laughed Luella, with a little return of her former spirit. “But here our people come.”
The ax had been plied steadily on the stubborn planks all through the conflict and its sequel. But the iron-bound beams and heavy lock had been built to resist police raids, and the door came down with difficulty.
At last it was shaking and yielding, and almost as Luella spoke it swayed, bent apart, and broke with a crash, and with a babel of shouts Corson, Porter, Barkhouse and Wainwright, with two more policemen, poured through the opening.
“Praise the powers, you're safe!” cried Corson, wringing my hand, while the policemen took the prostrate Chinese in charge. “And is the young lady hurt?”
“No harm done,” said Luella. “Mr. Wilton is quite a general.”
“I can't think what's got into the scoundrelly highbinders,” said Corson apologetically. “It's the first time I ever knew anything of the kind to happen.” And he went on to explain that while the Chinese desperado is a devil to fight among his own kind, he does not interfere with the white man.